Her stomach dropped as she realized the truth. She wasn’t just attracted to him. She was in love with him.
And she was going to have to walk away.
She lifted her cheek from his chest. Rather than release her, he shifted his stance so that her right hand tucked into his and the fingers of his other hand splayed above the small of her back.
Slowly, he began to lead her in time with the music. Her breath caught. They were waltzing.
He gazed down at her. “I have wanted you in my arms since the moment you first mentioned you might come to London. I would have danced with you every day, if I could.” He met her eyes then glanced away. “It’s just so… humiliating. You’d already seen me fall. To add the clacking of my leg…”
She didn’t hear any clacking. She could barely even hear the music over the thundering of her heart at what this moment meant to him. He wasn’t just dancing with her. He was risking all the rejection and humiliation he’d had to cloister himself into his town house to avoid.
He was confronting his deepest fears just for the chance to waltz in the garden with her.
She touched the side of his face. “You don’t have to do this if you’re afraid someone might see.”
“I don’t care about anyone’s opinion but yours. If I fall…” His lips curved wryly as he met her eyes. “I think I’ve already fallen.”
Her heart thudded. “Then it’s fortunate we find ourselves in each other’s arms.”
“Indeed.” He lowered his mouth. Slowly. Giving her plenty of time to turn away.
She slid her fingers into his hair and lifted her lips to his. He was what she wanted.
His kisses were gentle. Tender. She didn’t want gentleness. Her heart yearned for him too sharply to be content with mere tenderness.
Her kisses were hungry, demanding. She wanted every taste, every sensation to be seared upon her soul. If she couldn’t keep him in her arms, she would keep moments like these in her memory. Cleave them to her heart.
His feet stilled and, slowly, he broke their kiss. Their private waltz had come to an end.
She couldn’t repress the small sound of disappointment that escaped her throat… until she realized how far they now were from the ballroom. Although still and bare, the gardens’ trees and fountains provided a dark, secluded nook, sheltering them from prying eyes and the winter wind.
They were alone. Scandalously, deliciously, alone.
She didn’t think for a moment that it meant he was finally willing to introduce her to hedonistic pleasure—no matter how many nights she dreamt of just such a liaison—but she was greedy for any part of himself he was willing to share.
He led her to a stone bench and pulled her onto his lap.
Eagerly, she wrapped her arms about his neck, thrilling at the warmth of his embrace. He could have forced her to go back inside. Yet he cradled her in his arms instead. She wished she could be there forever. Her heart beat so rapidly, pressed against his.
He kissed the top of her head, the side of her temple, the shell of her ear. Letting her know he wanted more. Letting her know it was her choice.
Of course she would choose him.
She lifted her parted lips to his. He took her mouth. Her soul. His arms were heaven. She devoured him, her tongue dancing with his. He held her closer. The heat and passion of his kisses proved the intensity of his desire matched that of her own.
Her skin grew hot. Her clothes, restrictive. She wished she could tear his greatcoat from his beautiful shoulders. Feel her mouth on his warm neck, his muscled arms, his bare chest. To taste him on her tongue and know that he was hers.
The fantasy was so intoxicating, it stole her breath. If she could have had him, she might never have become a crusader. Might never have had to make do with clandestine kisses on a garden bench. She would have been able to give herself to him every night and cherish him every day.
His kisses heated her flesh. Robbed her ability to think. All she could do was lose herself in the moment. Surrender to his mouth, his touch. Pray he never let her go.
He splayed his hands against her ribs, just beneath her spencer. Taking possession. She arched closer. He suckled her tongue, nipped her lower lip. Branded her. This was Bartholomew. Her Bartholomew. As desperate for her as she was for him.
She slid her hands in his hair and kissed him back. Only a foolish woman would ruin the moment with unnecessary words. He was right where she wanted him: in her arms. He would not be there forever. A smart woman would take advantage while she still could.
The pad of his thumb traced the lower curve of her breast. She gasped as a sudden yearning shot through her to twist into his touch until he was forced to cup her breast in his hand. She gripped his shoulders, his hair. How could he have so much control whilst she had none? She could be his, if only he would take her. Her body had surrendered completely.
Her nipples were taut with desire. The shiver racing down her spine had nothing to do with the chill of winter and everything to do with the man whose mouth fed so hungrily on hers, whose thumb was rising toward her nipple with deliberate, torturous slowness.
Did he think he might shock her with his touch? Too late. She had already shocked herself with how completely she desired him. With the nights she had awoken, drenched in sweat, her pulse pounding in her ears at the taste of his name still hot on her tongue.
Here he was, in her arms at last. Hers for the moment. She gasped in pleasure, in need, as his fingers teased her aching nipples. He was everything she wanted. Her body burned to have his bare flesh against hers.
If the wind were not so bitter… If they were not a stone’s throw from discovery…
His fingers dropped as if she had spoken the words aloud. He broke the kiss, but rested his forehead against hers. Both of them panting, their hearts racing, their swollen lips only a breath away.
The wind had vanished, the music forgotten. He cradled her to him as if he, too, struggled to resist the temptation to indulge in a single passionate moment. Here, now, they could not do more than kiss. But they did not yet need to stop.
She opened her mouth to his once more, confessing her desire, her love, with every lick, every gasping breath.
The future would wait. All that mattered now was the heat of his embrace, the matching hunger in his kisses. Soon enough, they would resume their separate lives. Until then, she was his. She would love him with her mouth, her tongue, her hands in his hair, her body yielding completely in his arms for as long as he wished to hold her.
Laughter spilled from the other side of the garden. She froze with her lips on his, her heart pounding in alarm.
“’Tis perhaps fortunate that our interlude cannot continue.” He rubbed her cheek with the pad of his thumb then took her mouth in one last kiss. “It seems even the chill of winter cannot cool my ardor whilst in your presence.”
She did not feel fortunate. She rose from his lap only because footsteps approached. She’d forgotten the weather altogether until she no longer had his warm arms and heated kisses to shield her from the wind. An involuntary shiver wracked her. As soon as he rose from the bench, she clutched his arm and pulled him as close as she dared. But not as close as she wished.
For that, there would need to be no barriers between them. No curious partygoers. No icy wind. No clothing. Just her and Bartholomew, united at last.
She swallowed hard and glanced away.
’Twas an impossible dream. She could not have him. Her presence was temporary. She bit her lip. Her presence had always been temporary, for everyone in her life. Her loved ones left, or they forgot her. Bartholomew was no different. He had done so before and would do so again. A year from now, she’d be nothing more than a memory.
Yet her heart would break when it was time to walk away.
Chapter 22
The evening of her birthday, Daphne descended from a hackney carriage as though she were pushing through molasses.
She should be happy.
S
he clutched her documents to her chest and stared up at Katherine’s elegant town house. At the second story room Daphne no longer required. It was over. She could leave right now if she wanted and never return to London again. She should be thrilled.
Her lady’s maid alighted from the hack. “Everything all right, ma’am?”
Esther. Daphne shot a despairing glance at her maid. What was she meant to do about Esther?
With simple living and an eye on her budget, Daphne’s small portion was enough to provide for her and perhaps a maid-of-all-work as a companion.
No lady’s maid—not even a kind, unpretentious lady’s maid accustomed to no more fine living than what might be found in a simple vicarage—would wish to trade the slow, pleasant country life for the wretched, grueling drudgery of an overburdened, underpaid maid-of-all-work.
Even less likely was the idea any maid would wish to be dragged through the poorest, most far-flung corners of England. Daphne’s itinerary was not for the faint of heart. Failing farms. Teeming rookeries. Dangerous mines. It was not for Esther.
Once Daphne became an independent, unchaperoned crusader, she would no longer have the option of avoiding high society. She’d be obligated to avoid them. With a reputation that tattered, the only lord or lady who wouldn’t give her the cut direct without a second thought was Katherine.
And, perhaps… Bartholomew.
Daphne let out a slow breath. The silver lining to losing one’s reputation was that there was no longer any need to go to heroic measures to protect it. In fact, she rather appreciated the freedom her classlessness brought. If Bartholomew wished to kiss her, here she was.
For now.
“Everything’s fine,” she assured her maid, before forcing her feet up the walk to Katherine’s front door.
Whether or not everything was fine remained to be seen. The only certainty was that everything was changing.
Daphne handed off her coat and gloves to the butler and started up the stairs. Perhaps she should stay a few days before leaving. One couldn’t sack a cherished servant out of the blue.
She would also love to put her head together with Lady Amelia Sheffield one last time before the viscountess could no longer associate with Daphne publicly.
She frowned. There were plenty of black clouds to go with the silver lining of freedom.
Now that she finally had an army—and a lieutenant—she could do battle with more than her pen and writing desk. Lady Amelia didn’t seem the sort to require in-person instruction. She had already shouldered a fair chunk of Daphne’s letter writing, and had created teams of volunteers and detailed journals for each of her campaigns.
When Daphne reached her guest chamber, she rang for a tea tray and a hot bath. This might be one of the last times in her life to have such luxuries at her fingertips, and it was difficult not to wish to make the most of them while she still could.
The butler had informed her that Katherine had taken her aunt to the theatre and left instructions for Daphne to join them, but after the stress of so many weeks spent agonizing over whether she’d celebrate her birthday a free woman, Daphne wanted little more than to relax in the hot water and enjoy an evening away from crowds. Away from pretending.
An evening of being herself, without need to impress or playact or mind her tongue sounded just like heaven.
Once she was clean and dressed, she gave Esther the rest of the evening off. Daphne needed to sit down at her escritoire and decide what could be done for her maid. A task much easier without the maid in question staring at her from across the room.
Daphne affixed her reading spectacles to her nose and began to create a list of what Esther might need.
Passage back to Maidstone, of course. If Esther wished to return to Kent. London might well offer more and better opportunities for an experienced maid. Daphne nodded. She’d write several letters of recommendation. It might be difficult for the post to locate her as she traveled, so the best thing to do was provide Esther with a good quantity up front, as well as a month’s wages in case there was any delay securing employment.
The vicarage servants had been few in number, but they were loyal and kind, and in most cases had been with the family since before Daphne was born. Now that Captain Steele had inherited the cottage, heaven only knew what would become of them. Perhaps she should send letters of recommendation for the entire staff, just in case they found themselves in need of a way out.
Presuming Captain Steele didn’t intercept her recommendations and toss them straight into the fire.
A knock sounded upon her chamber door.
Daphne rose and discovered one of the footmen in the corridor with the afternoon post. She thanked him and carried the small pile to her escritoire. As expected, the mail was addressed to various aliases, in response to one cause or another.
All except one.
Frowning, she broke the drop of wax. A folded document tumbled onto the desk.
A document she recognized.
With shaking fingers, she unfolded the parchment. Her betrothal contract. She gasped and hugged the cursed document to her pounding heart. One of the servants must have managed to smuggle it from her father’s study.
A laugh burbled in Daphne’s throat. It would never have occurred to a pirate who trusted no one that most of the household knew the combination to her father’s safe!
For a servant to have risked discovery, however, meant that Captain Steele must have already left on his next pirating adventure after all. Which meant Daphne could happily send off multiple letters of recommendation to everyone on staff. They had taken care of her since she was a child, and they hadn’t stopped doing so just because her father was no longer their employer.
But first—!
She leapt up from the escritoire and strode toward the hearth, intent on ripping the contract into shreds and feeding each scrap to the crackling fire.
No. She paused just as her fingers made the first tear. This was a moment that deserved to be shared.
And it wasn’t the only copy of the contract.
She hurried back to the escritoire and dashed off a quick summons for Bartholomew, telling him everything was fine—better than fine!—and to please present himself and his copy of the contract at his earliest convenience. She rang for a footman to deliver the letter.
As soon as the note was gone, a thought occurred to her. Captain Steele hadn’t just lost his hold over Daphne. She’d lost hers over Bartholomew. As soon as they destroyed both copies of the contract, he would no longer need to fear Captain Steele dragging him into prison. Bartholomew would be free to walk away.
Unless she gave him a reason to stay the night.
Now that she was an independent woman, what did she intend to do with her newfound freedom? Even if marriage wasn’t in her future, there was only one way she wanted to spend the present evening: in Bartholomew’s arms.
She turned to the closest looking-glass. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright and shining. Her simple day dress wasn’t precisely the sort of gown one wore when plotting a seduction, but she’d already let Esther go for the evening and…
Daphne’s blush deepened. Yes. This was absolutely a seduction. She was free from the machinations of Captain Steele, free from Society’s prim dictates, free to live her life where and how she chose. She couldn’t think of anything more fitting than for her first act as a free woman to be making love to a man she cherished.
And would likely never see again.
She glanced down at the journal she used to plan her schedule. By this time next week, she planned to be in South Tyneside. From there to Leeds, then on to Shrewsbury.
Daphne doubted she’d soon return to Mayfair or Hyde Park. There were too many people who needed too much help elsewhere in the country. There were plenty of worthy causes in the London rookeries as well. However, those dirty streets weren’t where one stumbled across rakish childhood friends. Once she embarked on this adventure, she’d never be welcom
ed back.
She inhaled a slow, shaky breath. Whatever was going to happen, needed to happen tonight. The stars were aligned as well as they would ever be. If Bartholomew didn’t get her message, or was tied up with other engagements until later in the week… then it wasn’t meant to be.
Of course, now that she’d sent the invitation, her stomach was tangled in knots. She removed her spectacles and rubbed her face. So much could still go wrong. What if he didn’t receive it until the morrow? What if he did receive it—along with a more salacious offer from that beautiful widow with the long, seductive glances? What if he arrived, only to chuckle in amusement when she revealed her intent to seduce him?
What if he didn’t want her, not in that way?
Her heart skittered in trepidation. He’d been a rake for the past decade, while she’d remained good old Laughy Daffy, the forgettable vicar’s daughter from the country. He’d kissed her, but that was all. Rakes were scarcely renowned for their restraint. If he’d had any inclination to seduce her, surely he would have already done so. Wasn’t that omission clear enough? Did she really need to force him to reject her to her face?
Panic coursed through her. Heaven help her, she should never have sent that letter. With any luck, Bartholomew wouldn’t be at home to receive it. Or perhaps he’d send a note of apology, and come round some other time, when they wouldn’t be so alone, and the circumstances so ripe for—
“Miss?” Outside Daphne’s open door, a footman consulted a pristine calling card. “Major Bartholomew Blackpool is here. Are you receiving callers, or shall I send him away?”
“No,” she said, too quickly. Just the sound of his name set her stomach aflutter. Her cheeks flushed. “I should like to see him. Is he in the parlor?”
The footman bowed. “He is indeed. Shall I order tea?”
She hesitated for only a moment. “No, thank you. I’ve important matters to discuss with Major Blackpool, and it is imperative that we not be disturbed.”
The footman nodded crisply and took his leave.
Daphne snatched the stolen copy of the betrothal contract from atop her escritoire and strode out of her chamber.
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 49
